


Mardi Gras and Aye.

by Rabbit



Category: Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Crossdressing, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2002-07-24
Updated: 2010-11-15
Packaged: 2017-10-13 05:27:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 8,911
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/133469
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rabbit/pseuds/Rabbit
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Of Mardi Gras for Courfeyrac, Bahorel, and Grantaire, and what happened then.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Preliminaries.

So it was with a head full of fire and earth that I blinked at the bundle of air and light that simply breezed into Romani's, Carnival afternoon. I'd left off picking a domino until the very last minute; something of a ritual for me. One of very few I adhere to, not being a man of many habits. I'll stick to policies; Law is for Lawyers and let them be buried with it!

Anyway, this cloud of gaiety, this laughing, tinkling mob scene turned out to be Courfeyrac and Grantaire, in the company of a pretty and somewhat familiar looking girl-in-trousers. Romani-- hell, I've no idea if the old gypsy called himself that out of hubris or simplicity-- looked them up and down, and went back to stitching black ribbons on the red domino I'd selected. I grinned at them broadly.

"Ho Courfeyrac! Grantaire. Who's your pretty-- ah, pardonnez, your handsome companion?" I widened my smile for the lady and kissed her hand. She seemed amused, and possibly a little drunk.

"Eliese, beware of Bahorel." Courfeyrac shook a finger at the girl, and there was no doubt of his intoxication. "He's a fiend. Look at his domino!"

The piece I'd selected, I'll not withold praise where it's due, was simply a masterpiece. A Plum-red-wine-colored yawning devil, crowned by wicked horns and a white fleur-de-lys right in the center of the forehead-- mark of the beast, if you will. I was well pleased with the sentiment and with the workmanship, for old Romani is a genius. But all three of my new-come pixies laughed merrily at Courfeyrac's joke, and I merited the sound a good omen for the height of Carnival to come.

Save the little... hardly gris! coulour-ette, for the evening, my friends too seemed to have delayed costuming. They flitted amongst the racks, giggling like shpogirls themselves, while Mlle. Eliese flitted between whatever costume Grantaire pointed her to look at, and the selection of dominoes to go with the rest of her outfit.

I think I'd had something like it last year. She was dressed in a Harleqiun's suit of all different shades of blue, and the streamers at her knees and elbows were blue and white. She had a nice enough bosom that the binding holding them under her tunic did not conceal their presence completely; which, to my mind, made the effect all the more charming. And disconcerting, when one noticed-- one could not fail to!-- the excessively large cerulean-and-sky blue codpeice nestled between her thighs.

In that detail, save that mine were red and black, the girl and I matched, which should bespeak the disproportion of the item on her tiny figure. Other than that, I was dressed largely in a more aristocratic style than typically I favor-- black, black, and great terrible swooping black. I watched her select a domino, finally, of royal blue with peacock feathers-- large for her face, but handsome. I winked to show my approval at her choice, and she smiled at me, favorably, so I deigned. Her eyes flickered over to the dressing stalls, where Grantaire and Courfeyrac were-- so it seemed-- struggling blithely into their newfound garments.

"Eliese-- ach-- Eliot!" Grantaire called plaintively from the stall-- which, from my angle, apeared something like a tempest in a cloth-covered coffin. "Help!?"

Before I could so much as flirt, she scurried over to give assistance of some mysterious nature to our mutual friends. I watched this mission curiously, as the old man seemed faintly amused. I strolled over to the stall.

"Are you lads all right in there?" I queried, after a particularily piercing shriek that verily must have come from Courfeyrac's throat!

"Fine, fine..." There were some snapping and shifting sounds, and then Grantaire appeared from the stall, closely adhered to by his wide-eyed demoiselle.

I knew it was Grantaire because it sure as death and lawyers was not Courfeyrac. That amiable drunk had somehow transformed himself into a devestating courtesean of the higher brackets. He'd wriggled into an ice-blue and white confection of many layers of silk, lacy froth implying a bosom, well... in the place that one is used to seeing such accoutrement. His hair was out of queue, and done up on top of his head in some complicated twist of curls that was almost very fetching. The face threw me off entirely. It might have been related to Grantaire-- one of the sisters he mentioned occasionally. His homely, swarthy, bugged-out features were softened by powder and accented by rouge. His over-big lips, in this costume, and covered by a perfect sheen of red paint looked awfully right, and it was not until then that I noticed he'd shaved his moustache.

" _Sacre couer!_ " I exclaimed, clinging to some measure of composure. "By the devils Grantaire, you're almost pretty!"

"Blanchette." He said, or rather she, because the voice had been changed. "You will call me Blanchette."

I blinked, hard, and took a step back. There had been something that smacked of _command_ in the little wench's voice, and it spooked me. A comment about finding a spine in his corset died in my throat as Grantaire-- er, Blanchette's chin lifted, revealing a very pretty throat, circled by a cameo-on-lace bauble, and gracefully took Eliese's arm. I was almost taken aback. Obviously, Grand-R had chosen a costume to compliment his friend's, but dear God, were they handsome together.

A rustling behind me told me that Courfeyrac too had finished changing. Even with the small preperation that Grantaire's transformation had provided me, I could not believe my god-given eyes.

Courfeyrac looked up at me through demure, half-lowered eyes with the lashes fluttering over his lightly pinked cheeks. His hair was also loose, but flowing elegantly over bare shoulders, gossamer and goose-feather white wings attatched to the middle of his back. The gown he'd chosen was a diaphanous and very Josephine-esque style, and the bosom he'd apparently chosen, also modest. He was, and again, when I praise, it is not in vain-- beautiful.

I'm afraid that I gaped, and Courfeyrac smiled, a rakish grin which relieved me suprisingly. I hadn't known that I'd been tense.

"Dear God, Jean-Baptiste." I shook my head in marvel. "Your own mother wouldn't recognise you, and Napoleon would ask you to marry him."

" _Merci_ " Courfeyrac did a pretty little pirouette, and beamed at the lot of us. "But the Imperial flavor-- save with my waistline-- does not appeal to me. I think that tonight, I shall be called Dominique." She smiled at me, and I swear to god my heart fluttered. "If, of course, this charming devil will escort me. Cher Eliot forgot to bring me a friend."

Losing perhaps, some measure of my mind or the presence thereof, I bowed deeply and offered the vixen that my friend had become my arm. "My pleasure, _cheri_."

Courfeyrac-Dominique giggled-- quite the pretty sound too!-- and, claiming my domino from Romani, our merry little band sauntered off into the beginnings of Carnival dusk.

 

  



	2. Evening.

We stumbled through the streets of revelers, our glittering knot-- Eliot, Blanchette, Dominique and myself, having adopted the _nom de guerre_ Damiano, for the evening. Or Damiano-Phillipe, as the butterfly on my arm suggested subversively, to my utter delight.

I had had nothing to drink when we set out, and nonetheless was not tempted to start. My company in and of itself provided all the intoxication and the addlepation I could've borne in one evening. Grantaire provided less of a difficulty-- for the evening, there were no such creature. He became, inexplicably, this Blanchette, this White Lady, and, attended on by her all-too appropriate cavalier, I found that spectacle easy to comprehend.

With Courfeyrac-- Dominique-- Jean-Baptiste... ach! You see, I had more of a problem. As far as costume, as I have described, I could find no imperfection. The blush and flush, the way of swirling the skirts, the glimpse of stocking and leg, the coquettish wink and giggle... I suppose intimate knowledge of so many ladies-- by my own witness, so you may not think this my supposition, based on his boasting-- had provided my friend with the template to create the ultimate demoiselle to catch the eye and captivate the spirit. Which Dominique did, in fact! Were I not, to be bold, somewhat intimidating of stature, my little coquette should have been mussed and fussed from Admiral Briux to Marechal Davout! But when that pretty pink mouth opened, a silvery voice kept sallying and serving at me with jests and jokes that were no one but Jean-Baptiste Courfeyrac. As well as the disconcertingly familiar spark of wickedness in his-- her-- damn! green eyes. The color of which, I'll have you know, I'd not truly noted up until that very evening. These discrepancies, and the truth of how well they integrated with each other and with the prevailing madness bothered me in secret as we sailed into their usual tavern, the Musain.

We passed Enjolras on the way in, which was good for a laugh! He nearly walked right past us, save we removed our dominos upon entry. So he did a double take, gaping at Courfeyrac, who became _utterly_ our ami in that moment, and too breathless with laughter to do anything but splutter, "H-happy Carnival, Enjolras!"

Enjolras' expression I cannot describe, though I assure you that Louis-Phillipe does not mint a coin or print a scrip that could have purchased it, nor the memory of it!

"Goodnight." He said tonelessly, with a slight bow of his fair head, and left. I do not believe he noticed Blanchette-Grantaire, for that was the only moment in the evening that I percieved Blanchette's regal ice-queen slip, to reveal our beloved and amiable Grand-R. Subsequently, we did not spend much time in that café, beyond stunning those of our friends present with our charm, grace, and wit. Dominique seranaded us all with a husky love song from the edge of a table, and I believe she managed to infuriate the grisettes present, on the arms of their respective guardians. She truly did make them gray, in comparison, and I had not known that... ah, I had never heard my friend sing, truly. His-- their voice has the very light timbre that the tenors in the opera house strive for and altos dream of. And I had dreamt nothing more fair than a ticklish soprano! After Dominique's aria, I resolved to give the huskier-voiced chorus-girls a second chance, next time I dallied at the opera.

If I do not remember much else, after we left the Musain, it is because it blurred together into a web, a quilt, some woven confection of sparkle, colour, light, darkness, and laughter. We went places where I was known, but my friends were not, and the other men stared at my companion enviously, not privy to her secrets. I could not help but be sneakingly satisfied at this, and at the way she clung, breathlessly to my side, winking at them and then whirling into my arms as we danced one more measure to piping and stomping and whistling.

We lost Blanche and Eliot somewhere in the midst of this, but I cannot say that I noticed terribly. Rather I recall spinning into an alleyway to catch the breath, leaning against the wall with my arms full of my wil-o-the-wisp. Though not so wispy she proved to be, leaning full against me, gasping with glee, arms around my neck.

"Good Lord," She whispered-- Dominique's voice though the words were Courfeyrac-- "So this is what it's like to be on the other end of an evening with one of our lot." He, she... they looked up at me with a grin of unabashed, devilish delight. "Lucky the girls!"

"Lucky lucky." I echoed, surprised both by the growl in my voice and at how overwhelming some situations can feel. For a moment, I saw panic on their face, and then I cannot say that I saw more, for there was more to a lady's night with me than my friend and his alter-ego had yet experienced. I tightened my arm about their waist and caught their chin in my hand, and then I kissed them, soundly, and with as much force as I could muster. Like so many things, this did in no way relieve my tension, but only served it to build.


	3. Midnight

I allowed my pretty friend to pull away, after some time, and caught my breath with surprise to see how their-- her-- his-- aii! Their eyes glowed at me, bosom heaving heavily. Grinning, I fondled their bodice, discering some sort of bladder filled with liquid below the fabric. My companion giggled, throwing her head back to show off her pretty white throat, which I summarily kissed. My domino, which had been pushed up on top of my head, fluttered off and to the street. Dominique had lost hers sometime far earlier in the evening-- gave it away, I think, to Combeferre. 

Yes, somehow, in the course of this, I managed to forget entirely that there were any such creature inhabiting the body in my arms other than one called Dominique, willing virgin. Perhaps it helped that I remembered that this was Carnival, and we were none of us who we'd been in the daylight. And summarily, while I could predict the actions reasonably well of a Jacques-Gervais Bahorel, I could not be so certain of a Damiano-Phillipe. So, overcome, I wheeled and pressed her against the wall as I would any tart, my mouth against hers, gathering her skirts in my hand to facilitate acess to the secrets they shrouded. She yielded completely, almost eagerly. And when, in a moment of breath, my lady whispered, "Gervais," I corrected her with "Damiano." 

As you may guess, at some point in my explorations I found it verily impossible to maintain the illusion of Dominique any longer. Courfeyrac's eyes went wide, his cheeks even pinker than I thought possible, and he whispered, half in and out of his affected alto, "Dear lord, you're not going to stop, are you?"

I grinned at him, and he gasped, clenching his eyes shut at my ministrations _demulceo_. It seemed, by that point, I did not care who we were, save two beings devoted entirely to pleasure. Pressed against him as I was, he must have noted my own commitment, for he freed his hands a moment from my back to unfasten my trousers. His hand closed over mine, about the same business, and he smiled at me conspiritorially. 

In spite of the adjective, I am really at a loss as to how to describe this expression, or how to acredit it. It was the look of friendship, admiration and love that I am accustomed to seeing passed between friends and brothers, such as we. But it was also the abandoned, feverish look of lust that I have seen in the eyes of countless beautiful women, the one that signals with the parting of lips, the parting of thighs. And yet, it was an expression I have never seen before or-- almost sadly-- since, a new and dangerous creature _de profundis_. It completely conquered me, and I rather greedily surrendered, lifting my friend by the haunches so that he wrapped his legs about my waist, with the wall for support. For all her other feminine wiles, Dominique showed the masculine good sense of wearing only linens for lower undergarments, and these were, I fear, somewhat rudely disposed of, in pieces. Manuvering being somewhat difficult, considering our unwieldy position, I nonetheless shortly discovered an access point quickly enough. The noises coaxed forth in the voices of both of Courfeyrac's identities encouraged me to proceed, _ad manis_ , and finally, when that got favorable results, _digladio_.

He hissed, sharply, as I entered him thus, and I raised my face from his neck to read his expression. Maddened, mind white, I thrust the more passionately, unable to meet his eyes and keep my sanity. His hands clung to the back of my neck, wound into the hair like a mooring line, and all about us I could yet make out the heightening of the festivites-- sparklers whizzing by in the street, other lovers taking their pleasure in whatever shadow could be had, before the forty days of piety to follow. And also, Coyrfeyrac's voice unceasingly in my ear-- in caught breaths, in low moans, alto endearments professing love and desire, and ocasionally tiny squeals of pain, which I kissed to cure. For kissing, Jean-Baptiste's mouth were as sweet as any girl's, his lips as swollen in the practice of the art, and surprisingly yielding for one who had been so often the conqueror. The makeshift bosom heaved realistically against me, and the curve of haunch in my hand, smooth and cool, pleased my every aesthetic sensibility. Only his manhood, flat against my midsection, betrayed him, and in some ways this secret vice I found more arousing than anything else. Finally, Jean-Baptiste could take no more, and I felt him spend upon my blouse even as he clenched me tighter into him. He bit his lip at the height of his passion, fingernails digging into my flesh, and this was more than _I_ could bear. I think he feared that I would dash him to bits against the brick of the wall as I spent, violently, teeth clenched. 

We both found it all too appropriate that, as I helped him back to the ground, and he helped me back to the Earth, the streetlights and candles all, in one great breath, went dark. 


	4. First of Lent: La Ciel Bleu.

I lost Bahorel in the darkness not long into the first of Lent, not that I minded too much. The awkwardness of parting-- truly parting-- face to face was not something I wanted particularly to deal with.

Neither, in fact, did I want to go home just then. Or, not /I/ rather. Truth be told, it was Dominique, more then anything, I felt loath to leave behind, and she was entirely a denizen of the evening and the streets. Therefore, it seemed logical to me, amid the quiet shapes drifting towards their homes and the coming fast, to seek out Grantaire-or-Blanchette. Or, more directly, their pretty friend, who I had some idea of employing in her purely professional capacity.

Of course, you may think it base of me, or at the least unappreciative. But I am a young man, after all, and my appetite for the evening had merely been stoked, not stated. And while aware of dear Eliese's natural proclivities, given her profession I felt sure she'd make an aesthetic exception for a friend in need. Particularly one who was inclined to buy breakfast. Depending, of course, on exactly how devout a Catholic the girl was, of course.

Nevertheless, in all my disheveled finery, I slipped summarily into Eliese's home and place of employment, a little brothel in the Rue D'esperisons called La Ciel Bleu. The door was not locked, but the interior was somewhat dimmer than usual. A couple of the girls, coming home from their own schedules, grinned at me as I entered. One told me that the house was closed for Lent, but her sister winked and said,

"She just wants a place to bunk up, love. Come on in." She smiled at me, my costume not fooling her or her friend in the slightest. The permission made me feel slightly guilty for my intention, but between us Grantaire and I had paid to free Eliese's time well into Wednesday.

The two Ladies of the Evening went up the stairs, laughing together over the creaking wood, and leaving me in the common room. This place was empty, save a frothy figure at the far table, shaped like a woman but drinking like a man. Closer examination proved her to be, as I had I confess suspected, Grantaire. And/or Blanchette, if you like.

"Bonsoir." I addressed them, in my affected alto. They looked up at me, and I marveled at the enduring perfection of their regal appearance. It occurred to me, by the slight curl of that ice queen's immaculately painted lip, that I must look a fright. Lip color smeared to god knows where, eye-makeup and rouge rubbed off by dear Gervais's stubble... well, not to dither too long in thinking of that.

"Bonsoir, Dominique." a two-sided smile flashed back at me, Arture's wavering drunkenness spliced with Blanchette's steadfast hauteur.

"Bonsoir. Or Good-Morning, rather. And how dost thou, my dear, in this dark dawn?"

"Well enough," I sighed, slumping beside them. I must confess mixed emotions of camaraderie and envy both. How on earth had they managed to keep their makeup so... damned pristine? The faint tinge of Grantaireian wistfulness in Blanchette's narrowed eyes, perhaps, enlightened me. It had been a lonely evening for the two of them, poor dears. Which reminded me. "And, ah, where be our charming young gentleman, the now? Surely the cad hasn't abandoned you, sweet sister?"

Amused, I think, at my play acting, they favored me with a small smile.

"Ha! Never. I am afraid, Cherie, I wore the poor gentleman out. He is resting upstairs the now."

"Ah, but in what company?" I muttered, allowing my very masculine predisposition to show.

"Prince Oneiros, Lord Morpheus-- Sleep and Dreams." They murmured back, kindly but firmly. "It has been a long evening."

"Has it?" Ha! An eyeblink, if that, I thought, though I did not say so. "Where did you go, in the midst of it all?"

"Hither and yon. Avalon, at last." It was Grantaire now who smiled, sheepishly, over his glass still tinged with green. The bottle, I saw, sat precociously half full, and the bowl open before them held inviting lumps of sugar. "I have been teaching Blanchette about Absinthe. In return, you know. Would you care to join us?"

"Why not?" I smiled, and swiped the little vixen's spoon and glass. I hadn't managed so much as a sip of anything more intoxicating than... well, I hadn't had any thing alcoholic, anyway. I was more than ready to remedy this, and quickly. Companionable silence ensued for some moments while the liquid louched, and Dominique and I imbibed.

The door opened, and another of Elise's co-workers sidled through the door, tossed us a knowing wink, and trouped up the stairs. I imagine she took us for 'sisters' of hers, so to speak, but I couldn't be too terribly bothered over that, to-night. More immediately arresting was the face of my friend, oscillating between haughtily bemused and some sheepish, guilty sadness. I gazed curiously at his beautiful-woman/Ugly-boy's face, and tried to make mine look sympathetic, like a true sister, as it were.

"What troubles you, ma cherie? Don't let's be sad! It has been a magnificent festival."

"Has it? I hadn't noticed. Too many loud noises and bright colors."

Grantaire smiled, but it didn't reach Blanchette's eyes. I drank some more, and wondered at my friend's uncharacteristic melancholy-- whether it was something anomalous of Grantaire's or natural to Blanchette. But Grantaire, far more naturally, had not finished speaking.

"Don't you find it curious, friend femme, that with or without the domino, no one questions Dominique? Nor Blanchette. I found this to be true all evening, paper masks or plain, painted faces, no one knows who any one else is, and sees only what we give them to see. A curse upon all eyes! They ought to be put out at a baby's birth, though why stop there? but the blindness that allows holy wedlock and the birthing of babes has nothing to do with me. Fancy that! I drink myself blind and see far too clearly. What good have eyes ever done anyone? Bossuet can see without glasses, and never a tile misses his head, domed as the Xanadu of Kublai Khan; Combeferre cannot see without them and he exists in a mild state of unruffled bliss. Medusa had eyes that molded men into marble statues, and marble, as you and I both know, is unseeing stone. Lucky statues! Unhappy Galatea, marred by rough, brutish hands egotistical enough to conjure, for their slavish devotions sluttish goddesses; a celestial doxy bearing the curse of sight. No, it is better to stay stone, and live forever behind velvet ropes in some dusty museum. Venus de Milo loses two arms, and is she perturbed? Not a jot of it. I drink-- you drink too, sweet friend-- to blind all eyes, to the durability of stone, and the funny joke of the mask."

And they drank, and so did we. I do not know at what point I noticed, but watching Blanchette's poise beneath Grantaire's loquacious cynicism, it seemed to me a posture modeled after that of Enjolras, a little-- to follow Grand-R's analogy, as if the two were statues carved by the same sculptor, the female in the style of the male, not unlike Eve after Adam by the hand of our creator. Well, to present an attitude of haughty disdain and lofty bearing, there be far worse models than our mutual acquaintance. Of course, Enjolras hadn't noticed, I knew. He'd been far too busy being... aghast, is all I can say, at my own costume. But my friend knows me too well to be over surprised at my antics. How could he have seen Grantaire under all of that Blanchette? Why, I hardly knew him, thus!

A very good point, it suddenly occurred to me, and I looked again more closely at my friend and sister.

"My dear, dear friend. I gather it was not myself, nor Bahorel, nor the main of our ready acquaintances you wished to impress tonight. It isn't your fault he didn't see-- your costume is far better than mine. And besides, when have you ever known Enjolras to see a woman?" I grinned at Grantaire, and won a small reciprocal grin for my efforts.

"Blindness of stone." He raised his glass, and let his feminine Doppelganger drink. Perhaps it was this liquid intoxication on top of my many-layered drunkenness tonight, but I found myself admiring more thoroughly the darkly beautiful damsel before me. Her throat seemed wonderfully smooth and pale as she had thrown it back to drink, dark curls tumbling most fetchingly to her gauze-draped shoulders. My own shoulders felt suddenly cold, and I realized that I must have lost (among other things) my wings somewhere between dancing and my earlier adventure in the alleyway. Which thought made my cheeks heat, a bit in memory. I may have spent the rest of the night in such absent reverie-- until, of course, I fell face down drunk on the table-- had not my friend spoke, in a voice soft as heartbreak,

"Blessed, misbegotten blindness, I tell you. I am glad that no-one noticed." Then Blanchette drew herself up, masterful effort defeating drunkenness, "I care not."

"Oh, my poor, dear sister." I took her hands in mine, my own eyes, quite suddenly, having been opened. Grantaire had never made any secret of his nature to me, but I must confess that I, until now, had not noticed at all. Even when he introduced me to his Dear Friend, the pute lesbienne, even when he suggested this wild escapade. I think, to tell the truth, it was Bahorel who provided the final clue to the puzzle. Grantaire looked frightened a moment, but saw in me only deepest sympathy, and relaxed into his more confident, feminine persona. But they still said nothing, and I continued.

"How should I judge you? Rather, I curse myself for not realizing sooner. Except that our mutual friend is notoriously oblivious to matters of the heart, I should at this moment revile him for his blindness, much as I do myself when I am-- inadvertently, I assure you-- responsible for the melancholy of a woman. There is no greater crime, than to make a woman sad!"

Never mind, at this point in the evening, that Grantaire was not normally a woman. His gentleness, his loving amiability, in spite of his rather biting-- but harmless!-- cynicism should have more than won him heartfelt sympathy from any of our number. How cruel, Enjolras! As much haughty reproach as that lordly cur had visited upon our hapless drunkard, he should have paid a touch more attention. Really, he made Grantaire his whipping boy of sorts, and-- brave soul!-- Grantaire not only took it, he seemed to welcome it, as one might welcome caresses.

Even now, as my outrage grew, my friend looked no more upset than a wistful kind of melancholy, touched by his-- her-- affected nobility. Really, I considered, had Enjolras dark hair, Blanchette could have been a sister. Such a pity that our friend had none... at that moment, I battled a wicked little daemon of deep, shamefaced guilt for the thought that crossed my mind. Really! I wished to help my slighted friend, not salt his wounds with licentious, absinthe-aided, selfish fantasies. I squeezed his hands more resolutely, and Blanchette smiled at me.

"We thank you, dear Courfeyrac, for your kindness."

Kindness nothing! They were yet in pain. I made a small pout.

"Dear Blanchette, I am yet Dominique. It is after midnight, but there are yet hours till dawn."

Her face formed a little 'o' of query, and I smiled at them, resolution tinged with wickedness. I saw Grantaire struggle with alarm to return to the surface, but Blanchette shoved him back, blinking demurely at me.

Here, Dominique remained to follow my lead, she having the will and I the knowledge, at least, of feminine pleasures. Of course, she needed no guidance from me to know how to kiss Blanche's sweet, red mouth, cold with loneliness and tasting of anise and dissolved sugar. Nor to march those kisses resolutely down the smooth swan's-neck we'd so admired earlier. Blanchette did not object to these convent sister's attentions, nor my more baldly masculine gathering of her skirts about her waist.

No man that I know with any heat in his blood can deny curiosity about the things two women may do to each other in the darkness, say, in a brothel or a private school, with either an overabundance or dearth of men to spend their passion upon. I am told that both circumstances are fuel to that strange, twilight affliction popularly called Sapphism. My own speculations on the subject plotted my course now. With no great ease, being hindered by bench, liquor, and far too much frothy skirt, I descended to my knees and, swift as you please, popped my head beneath Blanchette's petticoats. A blessedly small amount of fumbling revealed their secrets to me, and while these were not the fragrant jungles I must confess familiarity with in this particular office, Dominique knew what to do with them. I felt a very strange detachment as she took their undeniable manhood into her mouth, very like sitting in the back of a fiacre, but watching the driver with fascination. I had not felt this unreality while full of Bahorel, and I put it down to the kiss of the Green Fairy, and forgot about it.

Meanwhile, Blanchette produced those sounds that always delight me, when inspired by feminine ecstasy.

Emboldened by this, I applied my hands in the vicinity, much as Bahorel had earlier that evening, and was rewarded by the most enticing movements on the part of my pretty-- no, not conquest. I was, after all, only aiding a dear friend in dire-- quite dire, as evidenced by the growing depth of her sighs and exclamations and the mounting tension in her body-- need. Her slender hands dipped into my coiffeur, smoothed onto my shoulders, and gripped there, fierce red nails clenching and unclenching in passion. Of course, I could not from this vantage see Blanche's face, but I was sure that Grantaire was at least as absent from her as I from Dominique.

Nevertheless, the penultimate moment for Blanchette came with a swiftness that, in all my experience, I decided was most un-feminine. Nor, although I had some theoretical preparation for it, was I ready for the job of taking the consequences of that passion, filling my mouth as they were fast as I could breathe and somewhat faster than poor Dominique could swallow. I had not been aware of precisely how aroused I had become in the interim, although the passion of others had often proved a powerful aphrodisiac to me. So I was shortly forced to release their manhood entirely, so that I might necessarily gasp as I spent, myself, paying little enough attention to where. I do recall smooth, dear hands stroking my head, as we both gasped our last in that chilly little parlor. The darling girl permitted me a minute or two to catch my breath, cushioned on a smooth, recently-shaved thigh before I re-emerged into the dubious light.

If before I had been disheveled and Blanchette pristine, I was now a perfect wreck, kneeling before an ivory carving of the Madonna. The only evidence of her exertions being a tiny, satisfied smile on her lips and, to be perfectly crass, upon the neckline of my gown. Benevolently, she extended a hand to lift me from the floor, and even condescended to place a grateful kiss upon my much abused mouth.

"Merci," she said, "for the both of us. Come, there will be an empty room for us to sleep in, sweet sister."

I let her let me through velvet-papered halls into a tiny, blue painted but yellow-stained room with possibly the most comfortable bed I'd ever descended upon in my weak life. We lay there, sleeping sisters in arms till' well past dawn.


	5. This Gentleman, or That.

As much as I may have wished it, I found it impossible to let go of the memory of Mardi Gras and aye. I had learned too much, you see, and being a progressive, how unchanged can-- could I have been-- by such new knowledge? Combeferre would have understood, and, by God, I longed to share my new knowledge with him. 

In fact, I quivered to spread my understanding, like the gospel, among the whole lot of my dear friends, who listened and were moved by my every other passionate idea. I am the sort of man who, when he has been carried away by an idea, likes to share it amid his fellows. There is nothing more inspiring than a tide of like-minded men sharing a voice on a matter of import, growing hot together over some injustice, rallying, as it were, to the cause and the call. Would, oh would that here they would rally too!

But there are dangerous ideas and dangerous ideas, and on some matters, even Grantaire has the wherewithal enough to remain silent. Even through my stewing, I pitied him-- ah, more and more!-- though I did not seek to comfort him, knowing that my motivations in doing so would be neither altruistic, nor, truly, helpful to that dear, sotted soul. But we understood each other, and that helped us both, a little, I think.

I wish I could express, truly, how utterly awful the month that followed was for me. I felt like I wanted to kill. The soft hands and sweet lips of my usual playmates palled, and I put them from me as a boy does wooden dolls and tin soldiers, for other things. I wanted to go to war. I wanted... ah, too much, everything. 

Finally, rather than shouting my need from the rooftops, in the daylight, as I might have with a lovely young lady, I took to whispering it in dark corners, wrapped in chiffon and lace. I filled the nighttime streets of Paris with my strange passion, and I did it not alone, not at all, but in the guise and with the company of the effervescent Dominique: the only feminine face, of late, to haunt my dreams so. 

We'd go out, of an evening, having discovered certain places in Paris-- salons held by this gentleman or that for the express purpose of satisfying the particular twilight pleasures that gripped me so. We would go, Dominique and I, in dresses I had made for her on my own salary, and later as gifts from, well, let us say, this gentleman or that. 

The salons were usually held at someone's townhouse, often while the host's wife was away. There may be one or two such as Dominique and I, those these were usually the sort who were procured, rather than invited. A curious sort of social commentary that-- I, being less expensive (by virtue of not belonging to that gay trade), was nonetheless more dear and quite readily welcome among the ranks of these men. I cannot hardly remember their names, the most of them. But they were gentry, most of them, titled of Bonaparte or friends of the restoration, bourgeois republicans like Enjolras's family. It did not matter. Some places, there is room for one passion and one passion only, and, given the scarcity of outlet for this particular lust, it overwhelmed all others, perhaps especially that of politics. 

Nonetheless, the atmosphere was not unlike a brothel. We came and danced and chatted, and ultimately came upstairs with this or that gentleman (as it were). Sometimes it would be the same one as before, sometimes not. I must confessed, I hardly cared. I loved them all. I loved the furtive, haunted need in their eyes, I loved the way they fumbled with Dominique's petticoats to get at and under my linen shorts, I wept with joy beneath their firm, hot hands: upon my sex, applying lubricating oils unto my person, gripping the back of my neck, the backs of my thighs, tearing and pulling open the shell of Dominique to get at the heart of Jean-Baptiste, which, I swear unto Bacchus, they did. 

I never ceased to learn, God no. I learned what it was that the women who let themselves be charmed into my bed so often were wanting so badly, and why. This knowledge has aided me often enough of late, and I hope never to lose it. In fact, I mean to ensure as much... but those are other stories, and I am yet late in coming to my ultimate point.

For you see, one fine evening, I left the Musain directly to go a salon I knew of, at a townhouse in the Champs-Elysées, stopping only by my flat for my transformation. By the time I arrived, greeted quite happily by the charming M. Granchat-- surely not his real name-- a man a little older than myself who acted as sort of a liaison between this salon and the next, the party was already in full swing. M. Granchat announced me, and I was greeted by familiar cries and calls from my many indistinguishable friends and lovers, already there. I had become quite well known, and, I think it not unfair to say, well thought of among the circles, and I spotted one or two heated looks, begging for a moment or two in private, quite soon. I laughed prettily and allowed myself to be integrated into the throng, though I rather purposefully made for the piano and the wine-servant, wanting to enjoy the public merriment before giving to the private banquet. 

It was at this moment, however, about when I had gained the bench of that old Eunuch we called Madame Gunault, that a hand found my elbow quite suddenly. 

It was, of all people, my darling Bahorel, whom I had not seen at the Musain that night.

"Dominique." He said, and I could discover nothing of his mind from his tone. 

"Damiano," I responded, with a coy smile. "I had not thought to see you again."

This was, in fact, true. Though I relived the knowledge of that brute in my dreams quite often, I had never seriously entertained the idea of soliciting Bahorel again. We did not speak of the incident on Fat Tuesday, letting it only occasionally pass in a shared smile, the sort that, while not disparaging, does not invite. 

"Nor I you," he said, and I felt very much like a fool. There was heat in his voice, and haunting in his eyes. Damiano had ridden him this far as assuredly as Dominique had ridden me. I wanted to throw my arms around him and weep, right there. But Dominique retained our composure. 

"We are rather well known here, my dearest Damiano, and I cannot believe that you are a stranger to these little _fetes_. How is it that our paths have not before this crossed again?"

"As a matter of fact..." And Jacques-Gervais straightened a bit, "I have heard of such affairs as these, by Satan, but I had not yet found the means to attend. This is my first night in such company."

"The first?" I arched an eyebrow at him, and he took my meaning immediately. 

"Aye, the first." And I saw his huge, all encompassing smile, and my heart melted. I raised up on my tiptoes and kissed him then, tucking the fingers of both my hands into one of his big fists for balance. He braced me thusly and held me up at the small of my back with the other, and my joy knew no bounds. 

"Will you come with me, my darling," I said when I had reclaimed my mouth from his, "Or do you prefer to sample the wares of the house, before humoring your old friend?"

He laughed at that, richly. 

"Never, sweet Dominique. I am utterly your slave, and give myself entirely unto your pretty hands." And here he raised them to his mouth and kissed them ardently. "But tell me, may I so monopolize you? For it seems there are others who would claim your attentions tonight." His eyes darted over one or two faces which I knew, and one or two I didn't, all watching Bahorel and I, pressed close as we were by the piano, Madame Gunault's airy soprano making a musical halo about our heads. And I laughed too.

"Well, gentleman this-or-that can wait, I think, tonight." I tapped him on the nose with a fan, produced from my rather ingenious bosoms. "For I have missed you, my dear friend."

I am afraid I let slip there an ardor somewhat unbecoming of a well-bred lady, far more suitable to a young and virile student. But Bahorel forgave me, and whispered in my ear, "Lead the way then, Jean-Baptiste."

A thrill went through my body, and I guided Bahorel quickly to a room which ought, this early in the evening, to be empty. And it was, for which I praised Eros fervently in my soul, and I shut the door behind us-- again, too quickly and eagerly for maidenly decorum. 

It hardly mattered. Bahorel hadn't the slightest patience for such niceties, even were I, in fact, inclined to offer them. In a trice, I was flat against the door, skirt about my hips, Bahorel's mouth tearing at mine as his great hands mauled at my bodice. For their size, his hands were markedly dexterous, and they deftly worked at the laces of the garment as we kissed and clung, I leaping to clasp my legs about his waist, and wrapping my arms about the back of his neck. I am slim, but not sylph-slight; nevertheless Bahorel lifted me easily, and thusly maneuvered us, in the course of undressing, to the wide, inviting divan.

The trouble with the sort of men I had become accustomed to is that they are, really, quite unconsciously effeminate, in the main. Their movements are dainty, deft, and delicate; no matter how firmly they might force you to bear your face into the cushions, they cannot manage it roughly. I had come to imagine myself content with their mimickings, the play at passion. Bahorel reminded me readily of what had been maddeningly lacking. His hands were now within the back of my dress, digging into the muscles of my shoulders, and his knees parted my thighs e'er wider, like the Moses of famed story and very seas. I arched against him, his teeth buried in my neck, and aided him with all of the willingness I had ever wished in of a cursedly coy mistress. My lips parted as my legs, my hands clutched and clawed at his back, I gasped, I murmured endearments in my breathiest alto. This only served to inflame my dear companion all the more; his fingers pressed into my skin as if they wanted to press through it, and moving rapidly downward. He growled, and I moaned my pleasure into the pillows, my head tossed back with wild abandon.

Even the fabric of the gown yielded before my friend's unbridled might; he rent the silk and gossamer fluff with his bare hands. Suddenly I was bare-chested-- horridly exposed for what I was, and suddenly shamed. I released him suddenly, falling backwards onto the couch. He stopped then, kneeling over me, his hands lightly between the halves of the dress and my skin. He'd torn the garment to the waist, and I tried not to mourn the twenty Louis that had gone into its creation. I rather imagine I looked quite the picture-- the painted face like a fop's alarmed at some new, personal scandal; panting, leaned back upon his elbows, flushed with desire and fear, and half-shucked, like grapes pulled off of a vine. And what do you think that brute, that damned devourer did to me then?

He chuckled. Deeply, in his throat, the sort of chuckle I had never heard in reference to myself or to any man before. The men I had come to know in these sorts of places were perhaps of a nature far too delicate to dare that brand of lewd noise, though God knows they're not shy enough about some others, I can tell you.

Nonetheless that chuckle re-sparked the fire within me, and, as I stared at him helplessly, his hands smoothed hard over the flatness of my chest, traveled to the back of my neck, and gripped my hair till I cried out. Only then did he release his grip a little, and only to finish his invasion of my skirts and my linens. At this point, however, I felt it urgently necessary to intervene, once more. 

" _Mon cher_ , my dearest darling, I am a dainty thing, and require a touch of consideration."

He frowned confused, and frowned more when I removed his hand from the place it occupied so to roll over and search the nearby table. What I sought was all too handy, due, of course, to the purposes of this assembly: a small vial, containing a fragrant oil. As I dripped it onto my dear friend's fingers he suddenly understood what it was for; this brought another chuckle from him, and he did not permit me to roll again onto my back. Really, I had forgotten quite how large Bahorel's fingers are, for the first one reduced me from my twisted, sprawled state to flat upon my belly, cringing in sheer lust into the lace doily which covered the leathern side-table. How I survived that holy night in the darkened alley without those lubricants, the use with which I was now intimately familiar, is yet a mystery to me. But well that I did!

Bahorel wasted little time with that, once he was certain of my quite obvious pleasure. Quick as you like, the devil was inside of me, and he lifted me by the arms so that I wouldn't gash my head open on the edge of the table. Instead, I bit down hard on pillow of satin and velvet, nearly choking on the stuff and, by God, not minding in the slightest. Next I knew, my mouth was free, and I had a moment to splutter threads before my dear, lovely friend's tongue was in my mouth as firmly as his sex in my body. I was as warm and twisted as a loaf of that braided bread you can get at Mere Magout's bake shop of a Friday morning, and I swear that I died twice over before Bahorel was through with me, his own spending as savage as a wreck on the reef, and undoubtedly more fun.

Now while Bahorel lay exhausted upon my back, I recovered my mouth and some few of my wits. Enough to discover two very important things. 

The first was that this room was one specially made for such displays as Bahorel and I now put on: there were holes, drilled into the wall and disguised with paintings, and the couch on which Bahorel and I reclined was arranged in such a manner as to be at the best advantage to them. Indeed, I could hear small, muffled noises that were not Bahorel, that were certainly coming from on-lookers in the next parlor. 

Let them look! I decided, arrogant abandon and a glimmer of Dominique asserting herself. For the second thing which I had discovered was that this time, I was not finished with Bahorel. 

Assisted by the slickness of our sweat, I slithered out from under Bahorel and stood, pushing out of the tattered remnants of my gown. I had never completely defrocked when with one of my gentleman friends before, in spite of being occasionally asked to do so. So let them see that, which they had not before! Nor Bahorel either, and he watched me with an interest as naked as I was. I grinned and knelt beside the couch, bestowing a kiss upon his mouth, fondly returned, upon the skin apparent through the neck of his shirt-- not yet removed-- and then upon that organ which had known me so intimately of late, sprouting from within the trousers he had likewise not bothered to remove. I say again, the brute! The blessed, wondrous brute!

I do not know if he expected that from me or not, but I do know that his hips jerked as if in spasm, and that was all needed to drive him into my mouth-- mine, mind, not Dommi's, but Jean-Baptiste's-- and for me to drive him, I think, completely mad. His hands made a wreck of my hair and he cried out incoherently, though I think I did hear a _cheri_ and a _je t'adore_ though the growling and the cursing and aye. I delighted in these sounds, in the slightest movement of his hips, in the obvious appreciation of the skills I had acquired in delivering pleasure in this fashion lately. Mind, that generally, I gave over to Dominique at that point in any given evening. For she had quite the taste for a healthy male sex down her gullet, while I, delighted enough to receive such favors, had not become quite accustomed to the administration of same. With Gervais, however, it seemed far too... personal an act to leave it to the lady, nay, he had accepted my body free of its disguise, I owed it to him to persevere free of it. Thusly, it was not terribly long before I brought my charming, smouldering Satan to his next crisis, and I was very pleased with myself, that I managed to consume the ensuing torrents with minimal mess, and a good deal less choking than I was wont to expect. I can only assume that Gervais appreciated my aptitude as well, for he wasted no time in pulling me atop him and kissing me, feverishly, his hands wandering the breadth of my skin and catching here and there. And here and there I caught too, and groped him back with like passion, till he pulled away to grin at me, full of fondness and love. 

"I have to admit," he said, "I did not expect to meet you here, my pigeon. But it was you I was looking for."

I could not even begin to explain how well I understood! I swallowed and nodded, my face flushed, my grin so broad that I knew my makeup must be cracked or completely gone, by now. I think that I said, "Yes," to him then, but I do not entirely recall. I remember instead lying in his arms, entwined upon the wonderful, wide divan, wanting to let myself drift into sleep but hardly daring. I listened instead to Jacques-Gervais's breathing, to the disappointed sounds from behind the peep-holes as the voyeurs moved off to find better sport elsewhere, and to the pounding of my own heart as I knew, sooner or later, we would have to move from this place, and the spell would be broken. There is a fairy-story I knew as a child that goes similarly, and seemed to have become the story of my life. The stroke of midnight, or the midnight stroking: and the ball ends, and all the splendor and finery are reduced to so many mice and pumpkins. After some time I sighed and shifted, so to wake my warm friend from whatever, I hoped, magnificent dreams he might have been enjoying. 

He had not, however, been asleep.

"Jean-Baptiste?" He said, and his throat sounded terribly hoarse. I could not resist, I turned and kissed it. 

"Come home with me." He said. 

I looked up then into his eyes, and that time I am very sure that I said, "Yes." 


End file.
